/^ 


\U1BH 


U! 


THE  LISTENERS 


THE  MSTENERS 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


BY 

WALTER  ,DE  LA  MARE 


NEW  YORK 
HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


Library 


6O07 
D37A' 


THE  author's  thanks  for  permission  to  reprint  cer- 
tain of  the  poems  included  in  this  collection  are  due 
to  the  Editors  of  the  Saturday  Review,  the  Thrush, 
the  Pall  Mall  Magazine,  the  Odd  Volume,  the 
Lady's  Realm,  the  English  Review,  the  Westminster 
Gazette,  the  Commonwealth,  and  the  Nation. 


CONTENTS 

PAOC 

THE  THREE  CHERRY  TREES         ....  I 

OLD  SUSAN 3 

OLD   BEN 5 

MISS  LOO 7 

THE  TAILOR 9 

MARTHA IO 

THE   SLEEPER 12 

THE  KEYS  OF  MORNING 14 

RACHEL l6 

ALONE 17 

THE  BELLS 19 

THE   SCARECROW .21 

NOD 23 

THE  BINDWEED 2$ 

WINTER 26 

THERE  BLOOMS  NO  BUD  IN   MAY      ...  27 

NOON  AND  NIGHT  FLOWER        ....  29 

ESTRANGED 3O 

THE  TIRED   CUPID        .          .          .                    »         .  3! 

vii 


viii  Contents 

PAGE 

DREAMS                    i.. 32 

FAITHLESS 33 

THE  SHADE 34 

BE  ANGRY  NOW  NO  MORE 35 

*.     SPRING 36 

EXILE 37 

WHERE? 38 

MUSIC  UNHEARD 39 

ALL  THAT'S  PAST 41 

WHEN  THE  ROSE  IS  FADED      ....  43 

SLEEP 44 

THE   STRANGER 45 

NEVER    MORE,    SAILOR 47 

#•    THE    WITCH 49 

ARABIA 52 

THE  MOUNTAINS 54 

QUEEN  DJENIRA 55 

NEVER-TO-BE 57 

THE  DARK  CHATEAU 59 

THE  DWELLING-PLACE 6l 

THE  LISTENERS 64 

TIME  PASSES      .       ...       .       .       .66 

BEWARE!     .....  68 


Contents  ix 

PAGE 

THE  JOURNEY .69 

HAUNTED 74 

SILENCE 76 

WINTER    DUSK 78 

*  AGES  AGO 80 

*  HOME 82 

THE  GHOST 84 

AN    EPITAPH 85 

'  THE  HAWTHORN  HATH  A  DEATHLY  SMELL  '  86 


THE  THREE  CHERRY  TREES 

THERE  were  three  cherry  trees  once, 
Grew  in  a  garden  all  shady; 
And  there  for  delight  of  so  gladsome  a  sight, 
Walked  a  most  beautiful  lady, 
Dreamed  a  most  beautiful  lady. 

Birds  in  those  branches  did  sing, 
Blackbird  and  throstle  and  linnet, 
But  she  walking  there  was  by  far  the  most 

fair — 

Lovelier  than  all  else  within  it, 
Blackbird  and  throstle  and  linnet. 

But  blossoms  to  berries  do  come, 
All  hanging  on  stalks  light  and  slender, 
And  one  long  summer's  day  charmed  that 

lady  away, 

With  vows  sweet  and  merry  and  tender; 
A  lover  with  voice  low  and  tender. 


2  The  Three  Cherry  Trees 

Moss  and  lichen  the  green  branches  deck; 

Weeds  nod  in  its  paths  green  and  shady : 

Yet  a  light  footstep  seems  there  to  wander  in 

dreams, 

The  ghost  of  that  beautiful  lady, 
That  happy  and  beautiful  lady. 


OLD  SUSAN 

WHEN  Susan's  work  was  done  she'd  sit, 
With  one  fat  guttering  candle  lit, 
And  window  opened  wide  to  win 
The  sweet  night  air  to  enter  in; 
There,  with  a  thumb  to  keep  her  place 
She'd  read,  with  stern  and  wrinkled  face, 
Her  mild  eyes  gliding  very  slow 
Across  the  letters  to  and  fro, 
While  wagged  the  guttering  candle  flame 
In  the  wind  that  through  the  window  came. 
And  sometimes  in  the  silence  she 
Would  mumble  a  sentence  audibly, 
Or  shake  her  head  as  if  to  say, 
'  You  silly  souls,  to  act  this  way ! ' 
And  never  a  sound  from  night  I'd  hear, 
Unless  some  far-off  cock  crowed  clear; 
Or  her  old  shuffling  thumb  should  turn 
Another  page;  and  rapt  and  stern, 
Through  her  great  glasses  bent  on  me 
She'd  glance  into  reality; 
I 


Old  Susan 

And  shake  her  round  old  silvery  head, 
With — '  You ! — I  thought  you  was  in 

bed!'— 

Only  to  tilt  her  book  again, 
And  rooted  in  Romance  remain. 


OLD  BEN 

SAD  is  old  Ben  Thistlewaite, 

Now  his  day  is  done, 
And  all  his  children 

Far  away  are  gone. 

He  sits  beneath  his  jasmined  porch, 
His  stick  between  his  knees, 

His  eyes  fixed  vacant 
On  his  moss-grown  trees. 

Grass  springs  in  the  green  path, 
His  flowers  are  lean  and  dry, 

His  thatch  hangs  in  wisps  against 
The  evening  sky. 

He  has  no  heart  to  care  now, 
Though  the  winds  will  blow 

Whistling  in  his  casement, 
And  the  rain  drip  thro'. 

5 


Old  Ben 

He  thinks  of  his  old  Bettie, 
How  she'd  shake  her  head  and  say, 

*  You'll  live  to  wish  my  sharp  old 

tongue 
Could  scold — some  day.' 

But  as  in  pale  high  autumn  skies 
The  swallows  float  and  play, 

His  restless  thoughts  pass  to  and  fro, 
But  nowhere  stay. 

Soft,  on  the  morrow,  they  are  gone; 

His  garden  then  will  be 
Denser  and  shadier  and  greener, 

Greener  the  moss-grown  tree. 


MISS  LOO 

WHEN    thin-strewn    memory    I    look 

through, 

I  see  most  clearly  poor  Miss  Loo, 
Her  tabby  cat,  her  cage  of  birds, 
Her  nose,  her  hair — her  muffled  words, 
And  how  she'd  open  her  green  eyes, 
As  if  in  some  immense  surprise, 
Whenever  as  we  sat  at  tea 
She  made  some  small  remark  to  me. 

It's  always  drowsy  summer  when 
From  out  the  past  she  comes  again; 
The  westering  sunshine  in  a  pool 
Floats  in  her  parlour  still  and  cool; 
While  the  slim  bird  its  lean  wires  shakes, 
As  into  piercing  song  it  breaks; 
Till  Peter's  pale-green  eyes  ajar 
Dream,  wake;  wake,  dream,  in  one  brief 
bar. 

7 


Mm  Loo 

And  I  am  sitting,  dull  and  shy, 
And  she  with  gaze  of  vacancy, 
And  large  hands  folded  on  the  tray, 
Musing  the  afternoon  away; 
Her  satin  bosom  heaving  slow 
With  sighs  that  softly  ebb  and  flow, 
And  her  plain  face  in  such  dismay, 
It  seems  unkind  to  look  her  way : 
Until  all  cheerful  back  will  come 
Her  cheerful  gleaming  spirit  home: 
And  one  would  think  that  poor  Miss  Loo 
Asked  nothing  else,  if  she  had  you. 


THE  TAILOR 

FEW  footsteps  stray  when  dusk  droops  o'er 
The  tailor's  old  stone-lintelled  door: 
There  sits  he  stitching  half  asleep, 
Beside  his  smoky  tallow  dip. 
'  Click,  click,'  his  needle  hastes,  and  shrill 
Cries  back  the  cricket  'neath  the  sill. 
Sometimes  he  stays,  and  o'er  his  thread 
Leans  sidelong  his  old  tousled  head; 
Or  stoops  to  peer  with  half -shut  eye 
When  some  strange  footfall  echoes  by; 
Till  clearer  gleams  his  candle's  spark 
Into  the  dusty  summer  dark. 
Then  from  his  crosslegs  he  gets  down, 
To  find  how  dark  the  evening's  grown; 
And  hunched-up  in  his  door  he'll  hear 
The  cricket  whistling  crisp  and  clear; 
And  so  beneath  the  starry  grey 
Will  mutter  half  a  seam  away. 


MARTHA 

'  ONCE  .  .  .  once  upon  a  time  .  . 

Over  and  over  again, 
Martha  would  tell  us  her  stories, 

In  the  hazel  glen. 

Hers  were  those  clear  grey  eyes 
You  watch,  and  the  story  seems 

Told  by  their  beauti  fulness 
Tranquil  as  dreams. 

She'd  sit  with  her  two  slim  hands 
Clasped  round  her  bended  knees; 

While  we  on  our  elbows  lolled, 
And  stared  at  ease. 

Her  voice  and  her  narrow  chin, 
Her  grave  small  lovely  head, 

Seemed  half  the  meaning 
Of  the  words  she  said. 

10 


Martha  1 1 

1  Once  .  .  .  once  upon  a  time  .  .  .' 
Like  a  dream  you  dream  in  the  night, 

Fairies  and  gnomes  stole  out 
In  the  leaf-green  light. 

And  her  beauty  far  away 

Would  fade,  as  her  voice  ran  on, 
Till  hazel  and  summer  sun 

And  all  were  gone : — 

All  fordone  and  forgot; 

And  like  clouds  in  the  height  of  the  sky, 
Our  hearts  stood  still  in  the  hush 

Of  an  age  gone  by. 


THE  SLEEPER 

As  Ann  came  in  one  summer's  day, 

She  felt  that  she  must  creep, 
So  silent  was  the  clear  cool  house, 

It  seemed  a  house  of  sleep. 
And  sure,  when  she  pushed  open  the  door, 

Rapt  in  the  stillness  there, 
Her  mother  sat,  with  stooping  head, 

Asleep  upon  a  chair; 
Fast — fast  asleep;  her  two  hands  laid 

Loose-folded  on  her  knee, 
So  that  her  small  unconscious  face 

Looked  half  unreal  to  be: 
So  calmly  lit  with  sleep's  pale  light 

Each  feature  was;  so  fair 
Her  forehead — every  trouble  was 

Smooth'd  out  beneath  her  hair. 
But   though    her   mind   in   dream   now 
moved, 

Still  seemed  her  gaze  to  rest 
ia 


The  Sleeper  13 

From  out  beneath  her  fast-sealed  lids, 

Above  her  moving  breast, 
On  Ann,  as  quite,  quite  still  she  stood; 

Yet  slumber  lay  so  deep 
Even  her  hands  upon  her  lap 

Seemed  saturate  with  sleep. 
And  as  Ann  peeped,  a  cloudlike  dread 

Stole  over  her,  and  then, 
On  stealthy,  mouselike  feet  she  trod, 

And  tiptoed  out  again. 


THE  KEYS  OF  MORNING 

WHILE  at  her  bedroom  window  once, 

Learning  her  task  for  school, 
Little  Louisa  lonely  sat 

In  the  morning  clear  and  cool, 
She  slanted  her  small  bead-brown  eyes 

Across  the  empty  street, 
And  saw  Death  softly  watching  her 

In  the  sunshine  pale  and  sweet. 
His  was  a  long  lean  sallow  face, 

He  sat  with  half-shut  eyes, 
Like  an  old  sailor  in  a  ship 

Becalmed  'neath  tropic  skies. 
Beside  him  in  the  dust  he'd  set 

His  staff  and  shady  hat; 
These,  peeping  small,  Louisa  saw 

Quite  clearly  where  she  sat — 
The  thinness  of  his  coal-black  locks, 

His  hands  so  long  and  lean 
They  scarcely  seemed  to  grasp  at  all 

The  keys  that  hung  between: 
14 


The  Keys  of  Morning  15 

Both  were  of  gold,  but  one  was  small, 

And  with  this  last  did  he 
Wag  in  the  air,  as  if  to  say, 

'  Come  hither,  child,  to  me ! ' 

Louisa  laid  her  lesson  book 

On  the  cold  window-sill; 
And  in  the  sleepy  sunshine  house 

Went  softly  down,  until 
She  stood  in  the  half -opened  door, 

And  peeped;  but  strange  to  say, 
Where  Death  just  now  had  sunning  sat 

Only  a  shadow  lay; — 
Just  the  tall  chimney's  round-topped  cowl, 

And  the  small  sun  behind, 
Had  with  its  shadow  in  the  dust 

Called  sleepy  Death  to  mind. 
But  most  she  thought  how  strange  it  was 

Two  keys  that  he  should  bear, 
And  that,  when  beckoning,  he  should  wag 

The  littlest  in  the  air. 


RACHEL 

RACHEL  sings  sweet- 

Oh  yes,  at  night, 
Her  pale  face  bent 

In  the  candle-light, 
Her  slim  hands  touch 

The  answering  keys, 
And  she  sings  of  hope 

And  of  memories: 
Sings  to  the  little 

Boy  that  stands 
Watching  those  slim, 

Light,  heedful  hands. 
He  looks  in  her  face; 

Her  dark  eyes  seem 
Dark  with  a  beautiful 

Distant  dream; 
And  still  she  plays, 

Sings  tenderly 
To  him  of  hope, 

And  of  memory. 

16 


ALONE 

A  VERY  old  woman 
Lives  in  yon  house — 
The  squeak  of  the  cricket, 
The  stir  of  the  mouse, 
Are  all  she  knows 
Of  the  earth  and  us. 

Once  she  was  young, 
Would  dance  and  play, 
Like  many  another 
Young  popinjay; 
And  run  to  her  mother 
At  dusk  of  day. 

And  colours  bright 
She  delighted  in; 
The  fiddle  to  hear, 
And  to  lift  her  chin, 
And  sing  as  small 
As  a  twittering  wren. 
17 


1 8  Alone 


But  age  apace 
Comes  at  last  to  all; 
And  a  lone  house  filled 
With  the  cricket's  call; 
And  the  scampering  mouse 
In  the  hollow  wall. 


THE  BELLS 

SHADOW  and  light  both  strove  to  be 
The  eight  bell-ringers'  company, 
As  with  his  gliding  rope  in  hand, 
Counting  his  changes,  each  did  stand; 
While  rang  and  trembled  every  stone, 
To  music  by  the  bell-mouths  blown, 
Till  the  bright  clouds  that  towered  on  high 
Seemed  to  re-echo  cry  with  cry. 
Still  swang  the  clappers  to  and  fro, 
When,  in  the  far-spread  fields  below, 
I  saw  a  ploughman  with  his  team 
Lift  to  the  bells  and  fix  on  them 
His  distant  eyes,  as  if  he  would 
Drink  in  the  utmost  sound  he  could; 
While  near  him  sat  his  children  three, 
And  in  the  green  grass  placidly 
Played  undistracted  on,  as  if 
What  music  earthly  bells  might  give 
Could  only  faintly  stir  their  dream, 
And  stillness  make  more  lovely  seem. 
19 


20  The  Bells 

Soon  night  hid  horses,  children,  all 
In  sleep  deep  and  ambrosial ; 
Yet,  yet  it  seemed  from  star  to  star, 
Welling  now  near,  now  faint  and  far, 
Those  echoing  bells  rang  on  in  dream, 
And  stillness  made  even  lovelier  seem. 


THE  SCARECROW 

ALL  winter  through  I  bow  my  head 

Beneath  the  driving  rain; 
The  North  wind  powders  me  with  snow 

And  blows  me  black  again; 
At  midnight  'neath  a  maze  of  stars 

I  flame  with  glittering  rime, 
And  stand,  above  the  stubble,  stiff 

As  mail  at  morning-prime. 
But  when  that  child,  called  Spring,  and  all 

His  host  of  children,  come, 
Scattering  their  buds  and  dew  upon 

These  acres  of  my  home, 
Some  rapture  in  my  rags  awakes; 

I  lift  void  eyes  and  scan 
The  skies  for  crows,  those  ravening  foes, 

Of  my  strange  master,  Man. 
I  watch  him  striding  lank  behind 

His  clashing  team,  and  know 
•i 


22  The  Scarecrow 

Soon  will  the  wheat  swish  body  high 
Where  once  lay  sterile  snow; 

Soon  shall  I  gaze  across  a  sea 
Of  sun-begotten  grain, 

Which  my  unflinching  watch  hath  sealed 
For  harvest  once  again. 


NOD 

SOFTLY  along  the  road  of  evening, 

In  a  twilight  dim  with  rose, 
Wrinkled  with  age,  and  drenched  with  dew 

Old  Nod,  the  shepherd,  goes. 

His  drowsy  flock  streams  on  before  him, 
Their  fleeces  charged  with  gold, 

To  where  the  sun's  last  beam  leans  low 
On  Nod  the  shepherd's  fold. 

The  hedge  is  quick  and  green  with  briar, 
From  their  sand  the  conies  creep; 

And  all  the  birds  that  fly  in  heaven 
Flock  singing  home  to  sleep. 

His  lambs  outnumber  a  noon's  roses, 
Yet,  when  night's  shadows  fall, 

His  blind  old  sheep-dog,  Slumber-soon, 
Misses  not  one  of  all. 
23 


24  Nod 

His  are  the  quiet  steeps  of  dreamland, 

The  waters  of  no-more-pain, 
His  ram's  bell  rings  'neath  an  arch  of  stars, 

'  Rest,  rest,  and  rest  again.' 


THE  BINDWEED 

THE  bindweed  roots  pierce  down 
Deeper  than  men  do  lie, 
Laid  in  their  dark-shut  graves 
Their  slumbering  kinsmen  by. 

Yet  what  frail  thin-spun  flowers 
She  casts  into  the  air, 
To  breathe  the  sunshine,  and 
To  leave  her  fragrance  there. 

But  when  the  sweet  moon  comes, 
Showering  her  silver  down, 
Half -wreathed  in  faint  sleep, 
They  droop  where  they  have  blown. 

So  all  the  grass  is  set, 
Beneath  her  trembling  ray, 
With  buds  that  have  been  flowers, 
Brimmed  with  reflected  day. 
25 


WINTER 

CLOUDED  with  snow 

The  cold  winds  blow, 
And  shrill  on  leafless  bough 
The  robin  with  its  burning  breast 

Alone  sings  now. 

The  rayless  sun, 

Day's  journey  done, 
Sheds  its  last  ebbing  light 
On  fields  in  leagues  of  beauty  spread 

Unearthly  white. 

Thick  draws  the  dark, 

And  spark  by  spark, 
The  frost-fires  kindle,  and  soon 
Over  that  sea  of  frozen  foam 

Floats  the  white  moon. 


THERE  BLOOMS  NO  BUD  IN  MAY 

THERE  blooms  no  bud  in  May 
Can  for  its  white  compare 
With  snow  at  break  of  day, 
On  fields  forlorn  and  bare. 

For  shadow  it  hath  rose, 
Azure,  and  amethyst; 
And  every  air  that  blows 
Dies  out  in  beauteous  mist. 

It  hangs  the  frozen  bough 
With  flowers  on  which  the  night 
Wheeling  her  darkness  through 
Scatters  a  starry  light. 

Fearful  of  its  pale  glare 
In  flocks  the  starlings  rise; 
Slide  through  the  frosty  air, 
And  perch  with  plaintive  cries. 

•7 


28       There  Blooms  No  Bud  In  May 

Only  the  inky  rook, 
Hunched  cold  in  ruffled  wings, 
Its  snowy  nest  forsook, 
Caws  of  unnumbered  Springs. 


NOON  AND  NIGHT  FLOWER 

Nor  any  flower  that  blows 

But  shining  watch  doth  keep; 
Every    swift    changing    chequered    hour    it 

knows 
Now  to  break  forth  in  beauty;  now  to  sleep. 

This  for  the  roving  bee 

Keeps  open  house,  and  this 
Stainless  and  clear  is,  that  in  darkness  she 
May  lure  the  moth  to  where  her  nectar  is. 

Lovely  beyond  the  rest 

Are  these  of  all  delight: — 
The  tiny  pimpernel  that  noon  loves  best, 
The    primrose    palely    burning    through    the 
night. 

One  'neath  day's  burning  sky 

With  ruby  decks  her  place, 
The  other  when  Eve's  chariot  glideth  by 
Lifts  her  dim  torch  to  light  that  dreaming 
face. 

»9 


ESTRANGED 

No  one  was  with  me  there — 
Happy  I  was — alone; 
Yet  from  the  sunshine  suddenly 
A  joy  was  gone. 

A  bird  in  an  empty  house 
Sad  echoes  makes  to  ring, 
Flitting  from  room  to  room 
On  restless  wing: 

Till  from  its  shades  he  flies, 
And  leaves  forlorn  and  dim 
The  narrow  solitudes 
So  strange  to  him. 

So,  when  with  fickle  heart 
I  joyed  in  the  passing  day, 
A  presence  my  mood  estranged 
Went  grieved  away. 
30 


THE  TIRED  CUPID 

THE  thin  moonlight  with  trickling  ray, 
Thridding  the  boughs  of  silver  may, 
Trembles  in  beauty,  pale  and  cool, 
On  folded  flower,  and  mantled  pool. 
All  in  a  haze  the  rushes  lean — 
And  he — he  sits,  with  chin  between 
His  two  cold  hands;  his  bare  feet  set 
Deep  in  the  grasses,  green  and  wet. 
About  his  head  a  hundred  rings 
Of  gold  loop  down  to  meet  his  wings, 
Whose   feathers   arched   their   stillness 

through 

Gleam  with  slow-gathering  drops  of  dew. 
The  mouse-bat  peers;  the  stealthy  vole 
Creeps  from  the  covert  of  its  hole; 
A  shimmering  moth  its  pinions  furls, 
Grey  in  the  moonshine  of  his  curls; 
'Neath  the  faint  stars  the  night-airs  stray, 
Scattering  the  fragrance  of  the  may; 
And  with  each  stirring  of  the  bough 
Shadow  beclouds  his  childlike  brow. 
Si 


DREAMS 

BE  gentle,  O  hands  of  a  child; 
Be  true :  like  a  shadowy  sea 
In  the  starry  darkness  of  night 
Are  your  eyes  to  me. 

But  words  are  shallow,  and  soon 
Dreams  fade  that  the  heart  once  knew; 
And  youth  fades  out  in  the  mind, 
In  the  dark  eyes  too. 

What  can  a  tired  heart  say, 

Which  the  wise  of  the  world  have  made 

dumb? 

Save  to  the  lonely  dreams  of  a  child, 
'  Return  again,  come ! ' 


FAITHLESS 

THE  words  you  said  grow  faint; 
The  lamp  you  lit  burns  dim; 
Yet,  still  be  near  your  faithless  friend 
To  urge  and  counsel  him. 

Still  with  returning  feet 

To  where  life's  shadows  brood, 

With  steadfast  eyes  made  clear  in  death 

Haunt  his  vague  solitude. 

So  he,  beguiled  with  earth, 
Yet  with  its  vain  things  vexed, 
Keep  even  to  his  own  heart  unknown 
Your  memory  unperplexed. 


33 


THE  SHADE 

DARKER  than  night;  and  oh,  much  darker, 

she, 
Whose  eyes  in  deep  night  darkness  gaze  on 

me. 
No  stars  surround  her;  yet  the  moon  seems 

hid 

Afar  somewhere,  beneath  that  narrow  lid. 
She  darkens  against  the  darkness;  and  her 

face 

Only  by  adding  thought  to  thought  I  trace, 
Limned   shadowily:   O    dream,    return   once 

more 
To  gloomy  Hades  and  the  whispering  shore! 


34 


BE  ANGRY  NOW  NO  MORE 

BE  angry  now  no  more! 
If  I  have  grieved  thee — if 
Thy  kindness,  mine  before, 
No  hope  may  now  restore: 
Only  forgive,  forgive! 

If  still  resentment  burns 
In  thy  cold  breast,  oh  if 
No  more  to  pity  turns, 
No  more,  once  tender,  yearns 
Thy  love;  oh  yet  forgive!  ,  ,  « 

Ask  of  the  winter  rain 
June's  withered  rose  again: 
Ask  grace  of  the  salt  sea : 
She  will  not  answer  thee. 
God  would  ten  times  have  shriven 
A  heart  so  riven; 
In  her  cold  care  thou'dst  be 
Still  unforgiven. 
ss 


SPRING 

ONCE  when  my  life  was  young, 
I,  too,  with  Spring's  bright  face 
By  mine,  walked  softly  along, 
Pace  to  his  pace. 

Then  burned  his  crimson  may, 
Like  a  clear  flame  outspread, 
Arching  our  happy  way : 
Then  would  he  shed 

Strangely  from  his  wild  face 
Wonderful  light  on  me — 
Like  hounds  that  keen  in  chase 
Their  quarry  see. 

Oh,  sorrow  now  to  know 
What  shafts,  what  keenness  cold 
His  are  to  pierce  me  through, 
Now  that  I'm  old. 
36 


EXILE 

HAD  the  gods  loved  me  I  had  lain 

Where  darnel  is,  and  thorn, 
And  the  wild  night-bird's  nightlong  strain 

Trembles  in  boughs  forlorn. 

Nay,  but  they  loved  me  not;  and  I 

Must  needs  a  stranger  be, 
Whose  every  exiled  day  gone  by 

Aches  with  their  memory. 


37 


174632 


WHERE? 

WHERE  is  my  love — 
In  silence  and  shadow  she  lies, 
Under  the  April-grey,  calm  waste  of  the 

skies; 

And  a  bird  above, 
In  the  darkness  tender  and  clear, 
Keeps  saying  over  and  over,  Love  lies  here ! 

Not  that  she's  dead; 
Only  her  soul  is  flown 
Out  of  its  last  pure  earthly  mansion; 

And  cries  instead 
In  the  darkness,  tender  and  clear, 
Like  the  voice   of  a  bird  in  the  leaves, 
Love — love  lies  here. 


MUSIC  UNHEARD 

SWEET  sounds,  begone — 

Whose  music  on  my  ear 

Stirs  foolish  discontent 

Of  lingering  here; 

When,  if  I  crossed 

The  crystal  verge  of  death, 

Him  I  should  see 

Who  these  sounds  murmureth. 

Sweet  sounds,  begone — 
Ask  not  my  heart  to  break 
Its  bond  of  bravery  for 
Sweet  quiet's  sake; 
Lure  not  my  feet 
To  leave  the  path  they  must 
Tread  on,  unfaltering, 
Till  I  sleep  in  dust. 

Sweet  sounds,  begone: 
Though  silence  brings  apace 

39 


40  Music  Unheard 

Deadly  disquiet 

Of  this  homeless  place; 

And  all  I  love 

In  beauty  cries  to  me, 

'  We  but  vain  shadows 

And  reflections  be.' 


ALL  THAT'S  PAST 

VERY  old  are  the  woods; 

And  the  buds  that  break 
Out  of  the  briar's  boughs, 

When  March  winds  wake, 
So  old  with  their  beauty  are — 

Oh,  no  man  knows 
Through  what  wild  centuries 

Roves  back  the  rose. 

Very  old  are  the  brooks; 

And  the  rills  that  rise 
Where  snow  sleeps  cold  beneath 

The  azure  skies 
Sing  such  a  history 

Of  come  and  gone, 
Their  every  drop  is  as  wise 

As  Solomon. 

Very  old  are  we  men; 
Our  dreams  are  tales 
41 


42 

Told  in  dim  Eden 
By  Eve's  nightingales; 

We  wake  and  whisper  awhile, 
But,  the  day  gone  by, 

Silence  and  sleep  like  fields 
Of  amaranth  lie. 


WHEN  THE  ROSE  IS  FADED 

WHEN  the  rose  is  faded, 
Memory  may  still  dwell  on 
Her  beauty  shadowed, 
And  the  sweet  smell  gone. 

That  vanishing  loveliness, 
That  burdening  breath 
No  bond  of  life  hath  then 
Nor  grief  of  death. 

'Tis  the  immortal  thought 
Whose  passion  still 
Makes  of  the  changing 
The  unchangeable. 

Oh,  thus  thy  beauty, 
Loveliest  on  earth  to  me, 
Dark  with  no  sorrow,  shines 
And  burns,  with  Thee. 

43 


MEN  all,  and  birds,  and  creeping  beasts, 
When  the  dark  of  night  is  deep, 
From  the  moving  wonder  of  their  lives 
Commit  themselves  to  sleep. 

Without  a  thought,  or  fear,  they  shut 
The  narrow  gates  of  sense; 
Heedless  and  quiet,  in  slumber  turn 
Their  strength  to  impotence. 

The  transient  strangeness  of  the  earth 
Their  spirits  no  more  see: 
Within  a  silent  gloom  withdrawn, 
They  slumber  in  secrecy. 

Two  worlds  they  have — a  globe  forgot 
Wheeling  from  dark  to  light; 
And  all  the  enchanted  realm  of  dream 
That  burgeons  out  of  night. 


THE  STRANGER 

HALF-HIDDEN  in  a  graveyard, 
In  the  blackness  of  a  yew, 
Where  never  living  creature  stirs, 
Nor  sunbeam  pierces  through, 

Is  a  tombstone  green  and  crooked, 
Its  faded  legend  gone, 
And  but  one  rain-worn  cherub's  head 
To  sing  of  the  unknown. 

There,  when  the  dusk  is  falling, 
Silence  broods  so  deep 
It  seems  that  every  wind  that  breathes 
Blows  from  the  fields  of  sleep? 

Day  breaks  in  heedless  beauty, 
Kindling  each  drop  of  dew, 
But  unforsaking  shadow  dwells 
Beneath  this  lonely  yew. 

45 


46  The  Stranger 

And,  all  else  lost  and  faded, 
Only  this  listening  head 
Keeps  with  a  strange  unanswering  smile 
Its  secret  with  the  dead. 


NEVER  MORE,  SAILOR 

NEVER  more,  Sailor, 

Shalt  thou  be 

Tossed  on  the  wind-ridden, 

Restless  sea. 

Its  tides  may  labour; 

All  the  world 

Shake  'neath  that  weight 

Of  waters  hurled: 

But  its  whole  shock 

Can  only  stir 

Thy  dust  to  a  quiet 

Even  quieter. 

Thou  mock'd'st  at  land 

Who  now  art  come 

To  such  a  small 

And  shallow  home; 

Yet  bore  the  sea 

Full  many  a  care 

For  bones  that  once 

A  sailor's  were. 

47 


48  Never  More,  Sailor 

And  though  the  grave's 
Deep  Boundlessness 
Thy  once  sea-deafened 
Ear  distress, 
No  robin  ever 
On  the  deep 
Hopped  with  his  song 
To  haunt  thy  sleep. 


THE  WITCH 

WEARY  went  the  old  Witch, 

Weary  of  her  pack, 

She  sat  her  down  by  the  churchyard  wall, 

And  jerked  it  off  her  back. 

The  cord  brake,  yes,  the  cord  brake, 
Just  where  the  dead  did  lie, 
And  Charms  and  Spells  and  Sorceries 
Spilled  out  beneath  the  sky. 

Weary  was  the  old  Witch; 

She  rested  her  old  eyes 

From  the  lantern- fruited  yew  trees, 

And  the  scarlet  of  the  skies; 

And  out  the  dead  came  stumbling, 
From  every  rift  and  crack, 
Silent  as  moss,  and  plundered 
The  gaping  pack. 

49 


50  The  Witch 

They  wish  them,  three  times  over, 
Away  they  skip  full  soon : 
Bat  and  Mole  and  Leveret, 
Under  the  rising  moon; 

Owl  and  Newt  and  Nightjar: 
They  take  their  shapes  and  creep, 
Silent  as  churchyard  lichen, 
While  she  squats  asleep. 

All  of  these  dead  were  stirring: 
Each  unto  each  did  call, 
'  A  Witch,  a  Witch  is  sleeping 
Under  the  churchyard  wall; 

*  A  Witch,  a  Witch  is  sleeping  .  .  .' 
The  shrillness  ebbed  away; 
And  up  the  way-worn  moon  clomb  bright, 
Hard  on  the  track  of  day. 

She  shone,  high,  wan  and  silvery; 
Day's  colours  paled  and  died: 
And,  save  the  mute  and  creeping  worm, 
Nought  else  was  there  beside. 


The  Witch  51 

Names  may  be  writ;  and  mounds  rise; 
Purporting,  Here  be  bones: 
But  empty  is  that  churchyard 
Of  all  save  stones. 

Owl  and  Newt  and  Nightjar, 
Leveret,  Bat  and  Mole 
Haunt  and  call  in  the  twilight, 
Where  she  slept,  poor  soul. 


ARABIA 

FAR  are  the  shades  of  Arabia, 
Where  the  Princes  ride  at  noon, 
'Mid  the  verdurous  vales  and  thickets, 
Under  the  ghost  of  the  moon; 
And  so  dark  is  that  vaulted  purple 
Flowers  in  the  forest  rise 
And  toss  into  blossom  'gainst  the  phan- 
tom stars 
Pale  in  the  noonday  skies. 

Sweet  is  the  music  of  Arabia 
In  my  heart,  when  out  of  dreams 
I  still  in  the  thin  clear  mirk  of  dawn 
Descry  her  gliding  streams; 
Hear  her  strange  lutes  on  the  green  banks 
Ring  loud  with  the  grief  and  delight 
Of  the  dim-silked,  dark-haired  Musicians 
In  the  brooding  silence  of  night. 
M 


Arabia  53 

They  haunt  me — her  lutes  and  her  forests; 

No  beauty  on  earth  I  see 

But  shadowed  with  that  dream  recalls 

Her  loveliness  to  me: 

Still  eyes  look  coldly  upon  me, 

Cold  voices  whisper  and  say — 

'  He  is  crazed  with  the  spell  of  far  Arabia, 

They  have  stolen  his  wits  away.' 


THE  MOUNTAINS 

STILL,  and  blanched,  and  cold,  and  lone, 
The  icy  hills  far  off  from  me 
With  frosty  ulys  overgrown 
Stand  in  their  sculptured  secrecy. 

No  path  of  theirs  the  chamois  fleet 
Treads,  with  a  nostril  to  the  wind; 
O'er  their  ice-marbled  glaciers  beat 
No  wings  of  eagles  in  my  mind — 

Yea,  in  my  mind  these  mountains  rise, 
Their  perils  dyed  with  evening's  rose; 
And  still  my  ghost  sits  at  my  eyes 
And  thirsts  for  their  untroubled  snows. 


54 


QUEEN  DJENIRA 

WHEN  Queen  Djenira  slumbers  through 

The  sultry  noon's  repose, 
From  out  her  dreams,  as  soft  she  lies, 

A  faint  thin  music  flows. 

Her  lovely  hands  lie  narrow  and  pale 

With  gilded  nails,  her  head 
Couched  in  its  banded  nets  of  gold 

Lies  pillowed  on  her  bed. 

The  little  Nubian  boys  who  fan 
Her  cheeks  and  tresses  clear, 

Wonderful,  wonderful,  wonderful  voices 
Seem  afar  to  hear. 

They  slide  their  eyes,  and  nodding,  say, 
'  Queen  Djenira  walks  to-day 

The  courts  of  the  lord  Pthamasar 

Where  the  sweet  birds  of  Psuthys  are,' 
55 


56  Queen  Djenira 

And  those  of  earth  about  her  porch 
Of  shadow  cool  and  grey 

Their  sidelong  beaks  in  silence  lean, 
And  silent  flit  away. 


NEVER-TO-BE 

DOWN  by  the  waters  of  the  sea, 
Reigns  the  King  of  Never-to-be. 
His  palace  walls  are  black  with  night; 
His  torches  star  and  moones  light, 
And  for  his  timepiece  deep  and  grave 
Beats  on  the  green  unhastening  wave. 

Windswept  are  his  high  corridors; 
His  pleasance  the  sea-mantled  shores; 
For  sentinel  a  shadow  stands 
With  hair  in  heaven,  and  cloudy  hands; 
And  round  his  bed,  king's  guards  to  be, 
Watch  pines  in  iron  solemnity. 

His  hound  is  mute;  his  steed  at  will 
Roams  pastures  deep  with  asphodel; 
His  queen  is  to  her  slumber  gone; 
His  courtiers  mute  lie,  hewn  in  stone; 
He  hath  forgot  where  he  did  hide 
His  sceptre  in  the  mountain-side. 

57 


5  8  Never-to-Be 

Grey-capped  and  muttering,  mad  is  he- 

The  childless  King  of  Never-to-be; 

For  all  his  people  in  the  deep 

Keep  everlasting  fast  asleep; 

And  all  his  realm  is  foam  and  rain, 

Whispering  of  what  comes  not  again. 


THE  DARK  CHATEAU 

IN  dreams  a  dark  chateau 

Stands  ever  open  to  me, 
In  far  ravines  dream-waters  flow, 

Descending  soundlessly; 
Above  its  peaks  the  eagle  floats, 

Lone  in  a  sunless  sky; 
Mute  are  the  golden  woodland  throats 

Of  the  birds  flitting  by. 

No  voice  is  audible.    The  wind 

Sleeps  in  its  peace. 
No  flower  of  the  light  can  find 

Refuge  'neath  its  trees; 
Only  the  darkening  ivy  climbs 

Mingled  with  wilding  rose, 
And  cypress,  morn  and  evening,  time's 

Black  shadow  throws. 

All  vacant,  and  unknown; 
Only  the  dreamer  steps 

59 


60  The  Dark  Chateau 

From  stone  to  hollow  stone, 
Where  the  green  moss  sleeps, 

Peers  at  the  river  in  its  deeps, 
The  eagle  lone  in  the  sky, 

While  the  dew  of  evening  drips, 
Coldly  and  silently. 

Would  that  I  could  press  in! — 

Into  each  secret  room; 
Would  that  my  sleep-bright  eyes  could 
win 

To  the  inner  gloom; 
Gaze  from  its  high  windows, 

Far  down  its  mouldering  walls, 
Where  amber-clear  still  Lethe  flows, 

And  foaming  falls. 

But  ever  as  I  gaze, 

From  slumber  soft  doth  come 
Some  touch  my  stagnant  sense  to  raise 

To  its  old  earthly  home; 
Fades  then  that  sky  serene; 

And  peak  of  ageless  snow; 
Fades  to  a  paling  dawn-lit  green, 

My  dark  chateau. 


THE  DWELLING-PLACE 

DEEP  in  a  forest  where  the  kestrel  screamed, 
Beside  a  lake  of  water,  clear  as  glass, 
The   time-worn  windows  of  a  stone  house 
gleamed, 

Named  only  '  Alas.' 

Yet  happy  as  the  wild  birds  in  the  glades 
Of  that  green  forest,  thridding  the  still  air 
With  low  continued  heedless  serenades, 
Its  heedless  people  were. 

The  throbbing  chords  of  violin  and  lute, 
The  lustre  of  lean  tapers  in  dark  eyes, 
Fair  colours,  beauteous  flowers,  dainty  fruit 
Made  earth  seem  Paradise 

To  them  that  dwelt  within  this  lonely  house: 
Like  children  of  the  gods  in  lasting  peace, 
They   ate,    sang,   danced,   as   if   each   day's 
carouse 
Need  never  pause,  nor  cease. 

61 


62  The  Dwelling-Place 

Some  might  cry,  Vanity !  to  a  weeping  lyre, 
Some  in  that  deep  pool  mock  their  longings 

vain, 

Came  yet  at  last  long  silence  to  the  wire, 
And  dark  did  dark  remain. 

Some  to  the  hunt  would  wend,  with  hound 

and  horn, 

And  clash  of  silver,  beauty,  bravery,  pride, 
Heeding  not  one  who  on  white  horse  upborne 
With  soundless  hoofs  did  ride. 

Dreamers  there  were  who  watched  the  hours 

away 

Beside  a  fountain's  foam.    And  in  the  sweet 
Of  phantom  evening,  'neath  the  night-bird's 

lay, 

Did  loved  with  loved-one  meet. 

All,  all  were  children,  for,  the  long  day  done, 
They  barred  the  heavy  door  'gainst  lightfoot 

fear; 
And  few  words  spake  though  one  known  face 

was  gone, 

Yet  still  seemed  hovering  near. 


Time  Passes  67 

Its  stair  was  broken, 

Its  starlit  walls  were 
Fretted;  its  flowers  shone 

Wide  at  the  portal, 

Full-blown  and  fading, 
Their  last  faint  fragrance  gone. 

And  on  high  in  its  lantern 

A  shape  of  the  living 
Watched  o'er  a  shoreless  sea, 

From  a  Tower  rotting 

With  age  and  weakness, 
Once  lovely  as  ivory. 


BEWARE! 

AN  ominous  bird  sang  from  its  branch, 

'  Beware,  O  Wanderer ! 
Night  'mid  her  flowers  of  glamourie  spilled 

Draws  swiftly  near: 

'  Night  with  her  darkened  caravans, 
Piled  deep  with  silver  and  myrrh, 

Draws  from  the  portals  of  the  East, 
O  Wanderer  near! 

'  Night  who  walks  plumed  through  the  fields 

Of  stars  that  strangely  stir — 
Smitten  to  fire  by  the  sandals  of  him 

Who  walks  with  her.' 


68 


THE  JOURNEY 

HEART-SICK  of  his  journey  was  the  Wan- 
derer; 

Footsore  and  sad  was  he; 
And  a  Witch  who  long  had  lurked  by  the 

wayside, 
Looked  out  of  sorcery. 

'Lift  up  your  eyes,  you  lonely  Wanderer/ 
She  peeped  from  her  casement  small; 

'  Here's  shelter  and  quiet  to  give  you  rest, 

young  man, 
And  apples  for  thirst  withal.' 

And  he  looked  up  out  of  his  sad  reverie, 

And  saw  all  the  woods  in  green, 
With  birds  that  flitted   feathered  in  the 

dappling, 

The  jewel-bright  leaves  between. 
69 


70  The  Journey 

And  he  lifted  up  his  face  towards  her  lattice, 

And  there,  alluring-wise, 
Slanting  through  the  silence  of  the  long  past, 

Dwelt  the  still  green  Witch's  eyes. 

And  vaguely  from  the  hiding-place  of  memory 

Voices  seemed  to  cry; 
'  What  is  the  darkness  of  one  brief  life-time 

To  the  deaths  thou  hast  made  us  die? 

*  Heed  not  the  words  of  the  Enchantress 

Who  would  us  still  betray ! ' 
And  sad  with  the  echo  of  their  reproaches, 
Doubting,  he  turned  away. 

*  I  may  not  shelter  'neath  your  roof,  lady, 

Nor  in  this  wood's  green  shadow  seek  repose, 
Nor  will  your  apples  quench  the  thirst 
A  homesick  wanderer  knows.' 

'  "  Homesick,"  forsooth ! '  she  softly  mocked 
him: 

And  the  beauty  in  her  face 
Made  in  the  sunshine  pale  and  trembling 

A  stillness  in  that  place. 


The  Journey  71 

And  he   sighed,  as  if  in   fear,   the  young 
Wanderer, 

Looking  to  left  and  to  right, 
Where  the  endless  narrow  road  swept  onward, 

In  the  distance  lost  to  sight. 


And  there  fell  upon  his  sense  the  briar, 
Haunting  the  air  with  its  breath, 

And  the  faint  shrill  sweetness  of  the  birds' 

throats, 
Their  tent  of  leaves  beneath. 


And  there  was  the  Witch,  in  no  wise  heeding; 

Her  arbour,  and  fruit-filled  dish, 
Her  pitcher  of  well-water,  and  clear  damask — 

All  that  the  weary  wish. 


And  the  last  gold  beam  across  the  green  world 

Faltered  and  failed,  as  he 
Remembered  his  solitude  and  the  dark  night's 

Inhospitality. 


72  The  Journey 

His  shoulders  were  bowed  with  his  knapsack; 

His  staff  trailed  heavy  in  the  dust; 
His  eyes  were  dazed,  and  hopeless  of  the 
white  road 

Which  tread  all  pilgrims  must. 


And  he  looked  upon  the  Witch  with  eyes  of 
sorrow 

In  the  darkening  of  the  day; 
And  turned  him  aside  into  oblivion; 

And  the  voices  died  away.  .  .  . 

And  the  Witch  stepped  down  from  her  case- 
ment: 

In  the  hush  of  night  he  heard 
The  calling  and  wailing  in  dewy  thicket 

Of  bird  to  hidden  bird. 

And  gloom  stole  all  her  burning  crimson; 

Remote  and  faint  in  space 
As  stars  in  gathering  shadow  of  the  evening 

Seemed  now  her  phantom  face. 


The  Journey  73 

And  one  night's  rest  shall  be  a  myriad, 
Midst  dreams  that  come  and  go; 

Till    heedless    fate,    unmoved   by    weakness, 

bring  him 
This  same  strange  by-way  through: 


To  the  beauty  of  earth  that  fades  in  ashes, 
The  lips  of  welcome,  and  the  eyes 

More    beauteous    than   the    feeble   shine   of 

Hesper 
Lone  in  the  lightening  skies: 


Till  once  again  the  Witch's  guile  entreat  him; 

But,  worn  with  wisdom,  he 
Steadfast    and    cold   shall    choose   the    dark 
night's 

Inhospitality. 


HAUNTED 

THE  rabbit  in  his  burrow  keeps 
No  guarded  watch,  in  peace  he  sleeps; 
The  wolf  that  howls  into  the  night 
Cowers  to  her  lair  at  morning  light; 
The  simplest  bird  entwines  a  nest 
Where  she  may  lean  her  lovely  breast, 
Couched  in  the  silence  of  the  bough; 
But  thou,  O  man,  what  rest  hast  thou  ? 

The  deepest  solitude  can  bring 
Only  a  subtler  questioning 
In  thy  divided  heart;  thy  bed 
Recalls  at  dawn  what  midnight  said; 
Seek  how  thou  wilt  to  feign  content 
Thy  flaming  ardour's  quickly  spent; 
Soon  thy  last  company  is  gone, 
And  leaves  thee — with  thyself — alone. 

Pomp  and  great  friends  may  hem  thee 

round, 
A  thousand  busy  tasks  be  found; 

74 


Haunted  75 

Earth's  thronging  beauties  may  beguile 
Thy  longing  lovesick  heart  awhile; 
And  pride,  like  clouds  of  sunset,  spread 
A  changing  glory  round  thy  head; 
But  fade  will  all;  and  thou  must  come, 
Hating  thy  journey,  homeless,  home. 

Rave  how  thou  wilt ;  unmoved,  remote, 
That  inward  presence  slumbers  not, 
Frets  out  each  secret  from  thy  breast, 
Gives  thee  no  rally,  pause,  nor  rest, 
Scans  close  thy  very  thoughts,  lest  they 
Should  sap  his  patient  power  away, 
Answers  thy  wrath  with  peace,  thy  cry 
With  tenderest  taciturnity. 


SILENCE 

WITH  changeful  sound  life  beats  upon  the 

ear; 

Yet  striving  for  release 
The  most  delighting  string's 
Sweet  jargonings, 
The  happiest  throat's 
Most  easeful,  lovely  notes 
Fall  back  into  a  veiling  silentness. 

Even  'mid  the  rumour  of  a  moving  host, 
Blackening  the  clear  green  earth, 
Vainly  'gainst  that  thin  wall 
The  trumpets  call, 
Or  with  loud  hum 
The  smoke-bemuffled  drum: 
From   that   high   quietness   no   reply   comes 
forth. 

When  all  at  peace,  two  friends  at  ease  alone 
Talk  out  their  hearts, — yet  still, 
76 


Silence  77 

Between  the  grace-notes  of 

The  voice  of  love 

From  each  to  each 
Trembles  a  rarer  speech, 
And  with  its  presence  every  pause  doth  fill. 

Unmoved  it  broods,  this  all-encompassing 

hush 

Of  one  who  stooping  near, 
No  smallest  stir  will  make 
Our  fear  to  wake; 
But  yet  intent 
Upon  some  mystery  bent, 
Hearkens  the  lightest  word  we  say,  or  hear. 


WINTER  DUSK 


DARK  frost  was  in  the  air  without, 
The  dusk  was  still  with  cold  and  gloom, 
When  less  than  even  a  shadow  came 
And  stood  within  the  room. 

But  of  the  three  around  the  fire, 
None  turned  a  questioning  head  to  look, 
Still  read  a  clear  voice,  on  and  on, 
Still  stooped  they  o'er  their  book. 

The  children  watched  their  mother's  eyes 
Moving  on  softly  line  to  line; 
It  seemed  to  listen  too — that  shade, 
Yet  made  no  outward  sign. 

The  fire-flames  crooned  a  tiny  song, 
No  cold  wind  moved  the  wintry  tree; 
The  children  both  in  Faerie  dreamed 
Beside  their  mother's  knee. 
78 


Winter  Dusk  79 

And  nearer  yet  that  spirit  drew 
Above  that  heedless  one,  intent 
Only  on  what  the  simple  words 
Of  her  small  story  meant. 

No  voiceless  sorrow  grieved  her  mind, 
No  memory  her  bosom  stirred, 
Nor  dreamed  she,  as  she  read  to  two, 
'Twas  surely  three  who  heard. 

Yet  when,  the  story  done,  she  smiled 
From  face  to  face,  serene  and  clear, 
A  love,  half  dread,  sprang  up,  as  she 
Leaned  close  and  drew  them  near. 


AGES  AGO 

LAUNCELOT  loved  Guinevere, 

Ages  and  ages  ago, 
Beautiful  as  a  bird  was  she, 
Preening  its  wings  in  a  cypress  tree, 
Happy  in  sadness,  she  and  he, 

They  loved  each  other  so. 

Helen  of  Troy  was  beautiful 

As  tender  flower  in  May, 
Her  loveliness  from  the  towers  looked 

down, 

With  the  sweet  moon  for  silver  crown, 
Over  the  walls  of  Troy  Town, 

Hundreds  of  years  away. 

Cleopatra,  Egypt's  Queen, 

Was  wondrous  kind  to  ken, 
As  when  the  stars  in  the  dark  sky 
Like  buds  on  thorny  branches  lie, 
80 


Ages  Ago  81 

So  seemed  she  too  to  Antony, 
That  age-gone  prince  of  men. 

The  Pyramids  are  old  stones, 

Scarred  is  that  grey  face, 
That  by  the  greenness  of  Old  Nile 
Gazes  with  an  unchanging  smile, 
Man  with  all  mystery  to  beguile 

And  give  his  thinking  grace. 


HOME 

REST,  rest — there  is  no  rest, 
Until  the  quiet  grave 
Comes  with  its  narrow  arch 

The  heart  to  save 
From  life's  long  cankering  rust, 
From  torpor,  cold  and  still — 
The  loveless,  saddened  dust, 

The  jaded  will. 

And  yet,  be  far  the  hour 
Whose  haven  calls  me  home; 
Long  be  the  arduous  day 

Till  evening  come; 
What  sureness  now  remains 
But  that  through  livelong  strife 
Only  the  loser  gains 

An  end  to  life? 

Then  in  the  soundless  deep 
Of  even  the  shallowest  grave 
82 


Home  83 

Childhood  and  love  he'll  keep, 

And  his  soul  save; 
All  vext  desire,  all  vain 
Cries  of  a  conflict  done 
Fallen  to  rest  again; 

Death's  refuge  won. 


THE  GHOST 

PEACE  in  thy  hands, 
Peace  in  thine  eyes, 
Peace  on  thy  brow; 
Flower  of  a  moment  in  the  eternal  hour, 
Peace  with  me  now. 

Not  a  wave  breaks, 
Not  a  bird  calls, 
My  heart,  like  a  sea, 
Silent  after  a  storm  that  hath  died, 
Sleeps  within  me. 

All  the  night's  dews, 
All  the  world's  leaves, 
All  winter's  snow 

Seem  with  their  quiet  to  have  stilled  in 
life's  dream 

All  sorrowing  now. 


84 


AN  EPITAPH 

HERE  lies  a  most  beautiful  lady, 

Light  of  step  and  heart  was  she; 

I  think  she  was  the  most  beautiful  lady 

That  ever  was  in  the  West  Country. 

But  beauty  vanishes;  beauty  passes; 

However  rare — rare  it  be; 

And  when  I  crumble,  who  will  remember 

This  lady  of  the  West  Country? 


«5 


'THE  HAWTHORN  HATH  A 
DEATHLY  SMELL ' 

THE  flowers  of  the  field 

Have  a  sweet  smell; 
Meadowsweet,  tansy,  thyme, 

And  faint-heart  pimpernel; 
But  sweeter  even  than  these, 

The  silver  of  the  may 
Wreathed  is  with  incense  for 

The  Judgment  Day. 

An  apple,  a  child,  dust, 

When  falls  the  evening  rain, 
Wild  briar's  spiced  leaves, 

Breathe  memories  again; 
With  further  memory  fraught, 

The  silver  of  the  may 
Wreathed  is  with  incense  for 

The  Judgment  Day. 

86 


The  Hawthorn  87 

Eyes  of  all  loveliness — 

Shadow  of  strange  delight, 
Even  as  a  flower  fades 

Must  thou  from  sight; 
But  oh,  o'er  thy  grave's  mound, 

Till  come  the  Judgment  Day, 
Wreathed  shall  with  incense  be 

Thy  sharp-thorned  may. 


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